Set Me Free
by Pasta and Sin
Summary: When America says that he wants to be free, what exactly does he mean?


**A/N:** Disclaimer, I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters. I also do not own the cover. They rightfully belong to their respective owners.

* * *

"Hey brother, if given a chance, what would you want to be?"

Normally, America would answer, 'Hero' without any hesitance but this question seemed odd. _Want_. That word rang in his ears and now that he thought of it, he actually _wanted_ more than just solving problems, _wanted_ more than just providing the needs of people, and _wanted_ more than just tending to countries asking for help... He _wanted_ more than just being a hero.

Drawing a long breath in, America shifted his gaze to the vast horizon above them and smiled, almost longingly before diverting his eyes back to him. That's right, the sky, the openness and it's limitlessness, that's what he wanted to be. That's what he always wanted to be. "Free."

He has always searched and yearned for freedom passionately. It was something that called out to him, that beckoned him and he embraced it with open arms. It was what he truly wanted.

"Free, eh?" The Canadian repeated, slightly confused. "But aren't you already independent? You've been free since July 4, 1776."

The kind of 'Free' America was talking about was different. It wasn't 'free' from being controlled, 'free' from being colonised, no. It was different and they didn't really need to know that. They'd never understand anyway. They'd never understand how suffocated and trapped America feels, how vulnerable and weak he actually is, how terribly painful it is for him to watch his loved ones and friends go and move on, how lonely and terrified he is when he's left alone with these thoughts, and they'd never understand how much America really wants to be free.

So America just shook his head, laughing with some sort of... Emptiness. Like it was forced. "No, not yet."

He knew it was hopeless of him to wish of such a thing like freedom. They were physically unbreakable shells. They could be toyed with, used as pawns in a game, a shield, they could be torn and thrown away and as long as their people survives, they'll continue to live. It was torment, it was despair- It was the curse they're forced to live with. He has proven that in various and difficult ways and none of them ended well.

* * *

 _The first time:_

He aimed the gun at his temple, hesitant at first. What about his family? What about his people? What about the friends he was about to leave behind? But it was immediately clouded with the pain of being forced to watch his other loved ones die while he lived on for centuries, with the anguish he faced when he realised how alone he truly is, and with the agonising memories of wars he lived through.

Suddenly, the weapon in his hand felt like comfort; it ironically felt like peace. It was such a sweet temptation. The trigger was the key to the freedom he yearned and all he needed to do was pull it. So he did.

A few hours later, he woke up, laying on the pool of his own blood. He glanced at his side, feeling nauseous and there, he saw the used bullet glinting under the moonlight. His hand shot up to touch his temple and there was no bullet wound. He was still alive.

* * *

 _The second time:_

Maybe they were naturally invulnerable to bullets because after all, they lived through wars. Maybe it was a unique characteristic they possessed as nations. America stubbornly thought as he placed his head inside the noose.

 _This time, it'll definitely work!_

He then hopped off the chair and kicked it away, and as soon as that happened, the rope tightened around his neck, slowly taking his breaths away from him. He choked on air as he attempted to greedily suck in a breath but the noose prevented him from doing so. He violently thrashed, clawing at the space in front of him. God, his lungs burned, tears stung his eyes, and he felt as if his insides was on fire! Soon, his vision blurred and was slowly covered with black spots then darkness.

For a moment, death claimed him. But after the next few hours past, he woke up once again and the choking process repeated until he was able to cut the rope. That didn't work as well.

* * *

 _The third time:_

Okay, maybe their bodies had something to do with it. Maybe it had to be completely destroyed for them to be able to die.

America was at the rooftop of a skyscraper and he stood dangerously at the edge. Surely, gravity won't fail him.

"When everything else fails, you can always trust gravity to let you down." He laughed humourlessly at his own pun. Even when he was about to die- for the third time- his jokes were still sucky. He placed his hands around his mouth and hollered, "This is hero Alfred F. Jones, signing out!" He paused, eyes downcast. "And... That'll be my last goodbye."

He drew a long breath in and closed his eyes. Yes, he was close to freedom. He was one step away to being free. He took that final step and leant forward. Then, he fell.

His body uncontrollably spun and twisted in various directions and angles as he fell thanks to the air friction. But he saw this one coming. He could feel his heart jump to his throat and his stomach churn with a violent tingling. It was almost thrilling and it felt similar to a chaotic rollercoaster ride, except this time, this was a ride to death without a seatbelt. He smiled to himself as the ground rose up to meet his body.

 _Splat!_

Then, for the third time, death took him. Although, after a few hours, he found himself awake again and in immense pain. His body was mangled and his joints were bent at wrong angles and holy mcnuggets, he couldn't move at all. The worse thing was that _he was still alive._

* * *

The list could go on and on of what he did. Name it and he's done it all. He has burned himself, chugged on muriatic acid, stabbed himself, cut his wrists, and even fed himself to the sharks as he attempted to drown himself. None of it worked and he was still alive.

Canada felt that his brother was being uncharacteristically aloof. "Alfie? Are you alright?"

America blinked rapidly. Has he been drifting away again? "Why do you ask?" Or did his brother know something?

"I'm not sure myself but you looked really far away just now. You felt distant and... It was as if you weren't here." Canada then shook his head, feeling silly. He softly laughed. "I must've been imagining it, eh?"

A sudden thought crossed America's mind. Maybe he can tell his brother. Maybe Canada would understand. And maybe...

"Hey Mattie, can you set me free?"

"Hmm? Sorry, what did you say?"

America gave the Canadian a bittersweet smile. "No, it's nothing, bro."


End file.
